Bloodstone

'How do you define weakness, Jake?' asked Jeremiah. 'Do you mean the sick, or the lame?'

Jake laughed. 'As I said, this is where the complications begin. There are those who are weak in body, but strong in mind and heart. There are those who have the physical strength of lions, but who inside are cowardly and weak. Ultimately a society will judge its people on their ability to supply that society with what it needs to grow and be successful.'

'Ah!' said Jeremiah. 'But that brings us to the old, who have already worked for the society, but can do so no longer. They become weak and therefore, by your arguments, useless. You are arguing against yourself, old man. You would have no place in a strong society.'

'Not so,' said Jake. 'For if I have earned from my labours, and amassed some savings, then I will use my money to buy food and clothing, which continues to help the society. For I will pay the tailor for my coat, enabling him to earn money. I still contribute.'

'But what if you have amassed no savings?' asked Isis.

‘Then, by my own definitions, I would be a fool — and therefore useless.'

'It is a harsh image you paint, Jake,' said Jeremiah.

'The world is a harsh place. But believe me, my friends, it is a lot less harsh than the one that the Deacon left behind. As I said, it all becomes a sea of complexity. Out here, however, under God's stars you can still find simplicity. You Wanderers understand that. You hunt deer and wild sheep in order to eat, and you journey into towns in order to work for Barta coin to support the life-style you have chosen. If there are no deer you will starve. Simple. And if there was one among you who refused to hunt, or was incapable of hunting or working, you would cast him out.'

‘That's not true!' said Isis. 'We would support him.'

'For how long?' Jake asked. 'And what if there was not one, but three, or five, or twenty-five? You can only survive for as long as you work together. A society is no different, child.'

'But aren't you missing something, Jake, in all your equations?' insisted Isis. 'Man is, I will agree, a hunting, killing animal. But he is also capable of love, of compassion, of selflessness. A society must surely incorporate these values.'

'You're a wise woman, Isis,' Jake told her, 'but your point also leaves out a number of Man's vices — like the propensity for evil. Some men — and women — are just plain malicious. They wouldn't understand compassion or selflessness. They'd kill you for the price of a meal, or just because they felt like it. When it comes down to basics a society can only prosper as long as everyone in it is willing to work for its benefit. The word weak is a cover-all — maybe parasites would be a better description. But then I don't have all the answers. Neither does the Deacon.'

‘Tell me, Jake,' said Isis, 'even if I accept all the points you have made so far, what about the slaughter of the Hellborn? Men, women and children were butchered by the Deacon's army. In their thousands. Were they all weak, Jake? Were the babies they murdered evil?'

Jake shook his head, and the smile faded from his face. 'No, girl, they weren't evil. The Deacon was wrong, in my view. But, in his defence, it was at the end of a terrible War and passions were running high. Two armies converged on Babylon. .' He faded into silence, gazing into the fire.

'You were there?' whispered Jeremiah.

'I was there. I didn't go in when the city walls fell. I could hear, though. The screams! The Deacon heard them too. He ran from his tent, scrambling over the walls and the bodies of the dead defenders. There was no stopping the slaughter. When the dawn came the Deacon stumbled through the city, eyes red from weeping. And not a man in the Army of God failed to feel shame. But the war was over, right enough. And the Hellborn would never invade again.'

Jeremiah leaned forward, placing his hand on Jake's shoulder. 'I think that you, too, carry scars from that day.'

Jake nodded. The kind that never heal,' he said sadly.

* * *

Shannow rode down the hillside and into the valley. There were ploughed fields here, and trees planted in lines as windbreaks. To his right, about a half-mile distant, was a farmhouse, timber-built with a slate roof. There was a paddock beyond the two-storey house, and a barn beyond that. The setting was peaceful. Twisting in his saddle, Shannow glanced back. The mountains loomed high behind him, and there was no sign of pursuit.

The horse was tired and walked with a listless gait. 'Not much further, boy,' said the rider.

Shannow rode up to the paddock and dismounted. The door of the house opened and an elderly woman strode out into the yard. Tall and gaunt, her iron-hair tied in a tight bun, she marched out to face the rider with a long rifle cradled in her arms, her right hand on the action, her finger resting on the trigger.

'If ye're a brigand, be warned,' she said. ‘I’ll tolerate no ructions here. And I can neuter a gnat from fifty paces with this rifle.'

Shannow smiled. 'Though I may look less than holy, lady, I am not a war-maker, nor a brigand. But I would be grateful for some water, and to be allowed to rest my mount for a day. I'll chop wood, or attend to any chores you set me.'

Her eyes were bright, her face seamed with fine lines, her skin the texture of leather. She sniffed loudly, and did not return his smile. 'I'd turn no man away without a meal at least,' she said. 'Unsaddle the beast and come up to the house. But you can leave those pistols on the hook outside the front door. You'll have no use for them inside.' So saying, she turned and walked back to the house. Shannow unsaddled the horse and led him into the paddock.

The front door led into a long, rectangular room, elegantly furnished with carved wooden chairs, an elaborate folding table and a long horsehide-covered couch. Even the cupboards on the walls boasted flourishes in carved pine. As she had requested, Shannow hung up his guns and moved to a chair by the empty hearth. His neck and back were aching from the ride and he settled gratefully into the chair.

'I see you know how to make yourself at home,' she said, striding in from the kitchen and laying a tray on a small table before him. There was a hunk of bread and a slab of cheese laid on plates of fine china.

'You have a beautiful house, lady.'

'Aye, Zeb was a right handy man with wood and the like. And don't call me lady. My name is Wheeler.

Zerah Wheeler.'

‘The rising of the light,' said Shannow.

'What?'

'The woman who raised me was called Zerah. It means the rising of the light in one of the older tongues.

Hebrew, I think.'

Zerah sat down opposite him. 'I kind of like that,' she said. 'You heading on for Domango?'

'How far is it?' asked Shannow.

'About three days west — if the weather is kind, and it usually is this time of year.'

'I may.' Shannow bit into the bread, but he was almost too tired to eat.

Zerah offered him a mug of cool water. 'You been riding long?' she asked.

'Yes. All my life.' Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes.

'Don't you go falling asleep in here!' she said, harshly. 'You're covered in dust. You go on out to the barn.

There's a water-butt and you can wash the smell of travel and sweat from your body. If you're awake early enough, there'll be eggs and bacon. If not, it'll be stale bread. There's a fence out back you can mend in the morning, if you're of a mind to earn your food.'

Shannow pushed himself to his feet. 'My thanks to you, Zerah Wheeler. May God bless your house.'